


The Length of His Days

by elismor



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Ficlet, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 04:07:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1536911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elismor/pseuds/elismor





	The Length of His Days

Some days, he wakes up remembering it all--every last thing about his life and his death and what came after. And if he's careful about how he pokes around the edges at things, he can even block some of the terror in favor of reliving a day spent at Coney Island in the summer of '38. Steve ate a giant tub of kettle corn and then puked on the Cyclone. He was forever puking on that thing, but it never once stopped him from getting back in line.

Some days, he wakes up in Russian and nothing makes sense. He knows it's not his mother tongue--knows that it's coming from outside of him even though it's his own head that can't figure out where he is or what anyone is saying--but there's nothing he can do about it. He just has to wait. And hope.

Some days, he wakes up homicidal and it takes every fiber of his being not to binge on carnage and fear. Waiting doesn't work on those days. He has to get outside and move and pray that no one is unlucky enough to cross his path. It doesn't always come out that way, though, and when they get too close, he finds the soft spots with his knife. Or his fingers.

Some days, he wakes up waiting for orders that never come and he is trapped in his bed until time and exhaustion eventually wear him down enough for a re-set. He always loses time after that. Two days. Three. A week, once, judging by the stubble on his chin and the stains on his sheets.

Some days, he wakes up thinking he’s being tailed by a man in blue and an angel and it makes no sense at all because sometimes they are friends and sometimes they are enemies and it’s impossible to tell which days are which. He’s not used to being confused. Instructions are precise, missions have a clear objective. These two are neither. The man in blue is solid, but he feels both safe and dangerous all at once. The angel, though. The angel dips in and out of view; sometimes soft around the edges, sometimes hard as steel. It’s been so long since anything has felt dangerous. So, on those days, he chooses to slide into shadows and watch.

Some days, he wakes up blank. An empty vessel. He goes out into the world and tries things. Tacos. Mochachinos. Chili fries. Skateboards. He jumps off low bridges to see if he can swim, or if the metal of his arm will drag him to the bottom and hold him down until he is clean again. On these days, he smiles at children and pets dogs and makes eye contact with pretty girls who pass him on the street. He goes to bed tired, but content and he thinks tomorrow will be the same.

One day, he wakes up Bucky. There’s no need to be careful around the edges--there aren’t any edges. He’s just...Bucky. Like any other day in the life of any other guy. And, sure, there’s a metal prosthesis and the cars are all from the future and the girls are dressed like nothing he’s ever even dreamed of, but there’s an explanation for it all. There is. And Steve will know. And even if he doesn’t, they will figure it out together. He makes his way back to the neighborhood. It’s a hell of a walk, but he feels great. Like a fog has lifted. Like a million bucks. Like he could single-handedly win a war.

But when he gets there--gets home--there is a coffee shop on the ground floor of Steve’s building and it’s supposed to be a tailor. The streets are clean and the people are dressed smartly, striding along with bags slung across their chests. They’re carrying white cups and talking into their hands and none of it is right.

For an instant, time stops. Then, slowly, everything blurs around him. Buildings slip and melt, rippling into bunkers. The sidewalk is a mossy path, then a tiled hallway, then a muddy, bloodied mess at his boots. Conversations begin in English, slide into German, then trip into Russian and are somehow all three at once.

He claws his way back, sucking in air, grabbing at reality with everything he’s got. The force of it all leaves finger marks in a lamp post and solicits startled looks from passers by. He almost makes it--almost finds the door--but a man pushes by shouting into his hand, demanding that the Martin Report be on his desk in ten minutes and there is a practically audible click.

It’s all sharp again. Shards and edges and splinters. He shifts his weight, squares his shoulders. Takes in the terrain and the movement around him in one savage, sweeping glance. He has no idea where he is or how he got there, but there was a mission and he needs to report in.

Not from here, though. He makes a sharp left at the corner, crosses the street, and takes the first turn he can find. It puts him out on a side street lined with trees and shops. He’s scanning--taking everything in while he looks for a fire escape--when he spots the man in blue sitting in a window table at a diner. There is a steaming mug at his elbow and a newspaper on the table next to a pile of empty dishes and cups. He’s wearing a ball cap tugged low, but it’s absolutely the man in blue.

His feet start to move of their own accord, propelling him over there. Back there. Back to tables in diners and blue plate specials and a shared copy of The Times. It’s that sort of day, today.

But the angel stops him cold, mid-stride. He comes from the back of the diner, smiling, and slides into the booth. His wings are folded tightly, invisible to both the waitress and the man in blue. They’re there, though. He can see them, poised on the verge of reality, biding time, waiting for the right moment to unfurl. The fire escape is six quick steps away and he’s halfway to the roof in seconds. He pauses near the top, though, and takes another look.

The angel has helped the man in blue. It’s plain to see from the ease of his smile and the way they sit, lingering over coffee and conversation.

Angels are known to heal, to bring comfort. But they were created first as warriors and the making of a warrior is something that burns and burrows and twists its way to the very core of you.

He knows this. He is this. Every day.


End file.
